A Rope of Thorns (Hexslinger 2)

“This ain’t the front lines, Chess!”

“Ain’t it?”

Even Geyer’s hard-won calm was starting to crack. “Um—no?”

Chess paused, eyes gone abruptly narrow, like he’d spotted something off in the distance—then grinned broadly, half born killer’s incipient battle joy, half boyish delight. “Here it comes,” he said.

Here what comes? Yancey wondered, reloading frantically.

Seconds later, however, the question was answered: A vast hoof-clattering overbore the ringing in Yancey’s ears, while a high-pitched whooping rose above, nearly drowning the general riot. At the valley’s southward entrance, a bright yellow dust-plume mushroomed—and a gang of riders came streaming up over the edge of the rise, long black hair flapping, armed to the teeth with bows, rifles, pistols. Wide-set young men with fierce eyes sported head-scarves and war paint, riding saddle-less, using their knees to steer. At their head rode a yet more unsettling figure, to all appearances another handsome brave with a haughty, knife-blade nose, copper profile subsumed ’neath the powder-black outline of a grasping hand . . . ’til “he” drew closer, vest flaps twitching apart, and Yancey saw how her breasts moved free beneath her shirt.

This startling figure paused as her followers milled about her—’til at last her gaze met Yancey’s square on, cleaving fast with a passion that quite took Yancey aback, which only made her smile . . . and wink, too, by God. Like they were flirting ’cross a crowded room, ’stead of fending off the risen dead, or leading warriors headlong into slaughter.

Ah, I see you, a voice said, at the same time—some mix of Savage tongues sliding fast to echo-chamber English, setting Yancey’s already-spent head tolling. Too young, untrained and out of bullets, as the Spinner said you’d be. For you must learn to hold your fire ’til the anger passes if you want to do true damage, little bilagaana dead-speaker.

Like you, Grandma had said, in last night’s dream. But . . . not.

And what was that name the old hex-woman’d called her by, when she’d claimed she was sending aid? Started with a “Y” as well, Yancey recalled.

From inside the building, another muffled yell from Joe, peering through the shutters: “Aw shit, is that Injuns, now? Might as well set the damn place on fire, then rebuild from the bottom up!”

“You see me tryin’ to stop you?” Chess threw back.

But the woman on the ridge was already singing out a fresh cry, eagle-harsh—“Haaaah!”—and urging her companions forward, whipping out a tomahawk whose blade shone a rich and burnished brown, fashioned from the jawbone of horse or stag. Her fellows armed themselves similarly and set those dreadful weapons to whirl and plunge, breaking over the Weed-creatures’ back-ranks at full gallop. Bone blades sheared through spongey new-grown limbs, popped the lids off skulls, split spines without seeming to break a sweat—mowing Love’s army down wholesale once again, with the quotidian, brutal efficiency of reapers cutting grain. Love’s resultant yells almost set Yancey to giggling.

“Just who is that sumbitch?” Morrow demanded, backing up, like he thought he might get splashed.

“I think that sumbitch’s a woman,” Geyer replied, doing the same.

Yancey nodded, gulping back her mirth. “Name’s . . . Yiska, that’s it. Navaho, though she rides with the Kiowa—the Apache, we call ’em. It means . . .”

“. . . ‘The Night Has Passed,’” Geyer filled in, snapping his fingers. “Hot damn! This might be a bit of luck, after all.”

“Sounds like you know her pretty well, for a bitch you’ve never met,” Chess said.

Geyer shrugged. “Of her, sure—Agency’s got five hundred on her head in New Mexico alone. That squaw’s the very definition of a Bad Indian; robs, scalps and burns wherever she can, ’specially if the Army’s involved, plus cattle-rustling and gun-running. And that’s without even goin’ into those other rumours—how she’s either a shamaness or somethin’ too close to tell the difference, and wears those trousers ’cause she likes meddlin’ with the ladies, to boot.”

Here he had the grace to break off, no doubt suddenly remembering just who it was he’d been talking to, in the first place. But Chess surprised all three of them by barely seeming to acknowledge he might’ve had reason to take offence.

“A queer hex, huh?” He commented. “Can’t have that, now, can we?”

More howls rose up, as Yiska’s band pulled up sharp and swung ’round in the opposite direction, coming in so fast and close that this time Love was actually able to grab one horse by its mane and tug, hard enough to snap its neck. The stallion plunged dirt-wards headfirst, catapulting its unlucky rider free. But an odd updraft caught the Apache mid-fall, twitching him deftly free of gravity’s trap—set him screwballing straight for Yiska, who swerved and flung her free hand out, all but plucking him from the air to slam down on her mount behind her. Her horse whinnied in surprised discomfort at his abruptly doubled load.

“Cricona de mujere!” the brave yelled back at Love as they swung by, just out of his range; Yiska roared with laughter. Love snarled, casting Chess a particularly foul look, to which Chess simply fluttered one hand, fingers waggling dismissively.

Two more braves pin-cushioned Love with arrows, which he ripped free, spraying bits of himself everywhere. But none bothered to target the Weed-creatures directly; instead, they stuck to sweeps and darts, slicing and hacking, leaning out dangerously far to strike blows and ducking clumsy swings and grabs in return, all with the casual ease of long-practiced technique.

They’ve done this before, Yancey realized. Fought things like this more than once—had to’ve done. Which means . . .

More dead than hers walked this land, now; anywhere the Weed had conquered, most likely. Which in turn made her think on just how far the Weed must have already spread, and feel sick. The horizon seemed to blur, sky gone tissue-thin.

Maybe these were Last Days, after all. Maybe Sheriff Love’s terrible cry of “Judgement!” had been only the rawest of truths.

Right in the path of one galloping horse, vines exploded up out of the earth to whiplash about its legs, snatching the screaming stallion to earth so fast Yiska had no chance to intervene. Cartwheeled through the air, its rider somehow managed to come down legs first, with spectacular agility—might even have survived if he hadn’t tumbled right into a good five or six of the Weed-things. They fell on him with the fury of starving wolves, all shambling lassitude utterly gone, and commenced ripping him skin from bone. His shrieks spurred two more warriors into a futile rescue attempt; they turned their mounts straight into the horde, only to go down too, creatures seizing at their belts, vests and weapons all at once. Blood burst over the frenzied melee, unleashing a cacophony of horrible tearing noises.

Yancey felt the rush of released power surge against her body, heading straight for its favourite recipient. She glanced back at Chess, and saw him swaying like a drunk, eyes narrowed until a green-glowing thread sewed his lashes together. Spilled blood was spilled blood, it seemed—no prayers necessary. Perhaps they never had been.

At Yiska’s shouted command, the circling braves broke rank, peeling back from the spreading tide of grue-gorged Weed even as its avatars marshalled fresh speed and strength. In the centre, Love stood tall once again, his unmarked face almost human to look at—always saving the blind white eyes which followed the riders’ path, of course, merciless as bone.